


Swansong

by X_Kartoffel_X



Category: K (Anime), K: Days of Blue, K: Lost Small World, K: Memory Of Red, K: Missing Kings
Genre: (only physical violence however), Dubious Consent, Graphic Description, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/X_Kartoffel_X/pseuds/X_Kartoffel_X
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your glasses steamed up.” Mikoto Suoh's voice forces the nerves in Fushimi's back to convulse – taughten and snap into contraction – forces him to sit up straight, like an animal awaiting attack. His hands grip unintentionally tightly into Misaki's forearms, and the brunette yelps a little, pulling them free in an instant. </p><p>“Ouch, you should cut those shorter, Saruhiko, they're like claws.” Misaki grumbles, as he shakes his sore wrists, and looks back to Mikoto with a reverence he has never offered to anyone else. </p><p>Not even Fushimi.</p><p>Yeah.</p><p>He digs those nails hard into his own palms, revelling in the sting.</p><p>They are.</p><p>(My own extensively-headcanon take on events leading up to and after/around Saruhiko's betrayal of HOMRA, as well as some pre and post S1 events, with excessive focus on Saruhiko's thought processes throughout the 'snippets' I've picked out. Something of a Fushimi Saruhiko character study. This is not an easy read, nor are certain scenes pleasant. I tried to tag it as best I could so people could judge whether or not to read it. Further warnings before the fic begins.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swansong

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so. Warnings; there are NUMEROUS depictions of physical and mental abuse in here, excessive headcanon, canon borrowings from K season 1, Missing Kings, Memory of Red, Days of Blue, and Lost Small World.
> 
> Saruhiko engages in self harm at several points (no cutting, but other means such as use of his own nails, starving himself, etc. Most of these are not active attempts at self harm, but some are).
> 
> There are numerous references to mistreatment from Niki (physical but non-sexual abuse, as well as mental abuse - the latter we know to be canon). There's a debatably dub-con scene near the end, and 'imagined' dub/non-con suggestive scenes at several intervals.
> 
> *
> 
> This was written over a year ago now, so there's a lot of literary devices I'm now out of the habit of using... it's weird to go back and look at it, considering! I think I've improved a lot, but I still like it even so. Stream-of-consciousness style writing is pretty fun... especially with a character like Saruhiko.

“Oooiiii, Saru, what’s taking you so long? I know you’ve got stick limbs, but are they really that flimsy they can’t even carry you?”

“’che, you so far up your own ass you can’t even move right?”

“I don’t even know why we bring him, he just pulls faces all the time, and acts like he can’t stand us.”

“Why the heck _do_ we bring him?”

“Mr Mikoto says we should, ‘cuz he’s ‘good at what he does’, right? If what he does is complain, then yeah, he sure is good at it.”

“And ‘cos Yata likes him, right? Oiii, Yata, why’d you waste your time with this dweeb anyway? He’s nowhere near as cool as you. You’d think you’d have better taste in friends!”

“Haah? I’m friends with you guys, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but keeping that guy around really drags you down.”

“How’d you figure?”

“He’s always keeping you from hanging out with the _really_ cool people.” Kamamoto gestures himself, and Misaki laughs.

Laughs.

_Laughs._

Fushimi feels a tug, somewhere deep and dark inside his chest – a black pool that has festered and putrefied like congealed blood - and stares at the back of his own hand, as he flicks his knives back and forth between his fingers, and wonders what the flayed flesh would look like, should he carve the skin from the bone, there and then.

“Oi, Saru, come on – hurry up!”

Fushimi looks up, and sees Misaki’s hand outstretched towards him – and it is enough.

He unclenches his fist.

Ignores the beads of blood that gather beneath his nail beds.

Follows these fools into damnation and love.

Love.

_Disillusioned Love._

_*_

Is it madness or loneliness that keeps him here?

Feet tied to an unshakeable weight.

_Nailed into the ground._

“Fushimi, sir – the unit is ready to mobilise on your order. With such an unprecedented attack on the Gold Clan's tower however, it would be advisable for you to hold back any acts of force until such a time as our King feels the situation has been properly assessed.” Hidaka's words are uttered professionally, but laced with a kindness, and reverence, that the former HOMRA member is still not yet used to.

He clicks his tongue in annoyance at the sound.

“Then go in on _his_ order.”

_Why keep me here when I'm not needed?_

“Actually, Fushimi – ah, Sir – I believe our King wishes to speak with you, when you have a moment to spare...”

There it is.

A use.

_Purpose._

“'sk. I suppose I'd better head over there before he starts complaining.”

The rain falls heavily on his shoulders.

_Sensation of drowning as his feet wade through the murky depths below..._

_A more palatable fate than being consumed by flames._

He shakes the water from his hair and it splatters messily across his glasses.

_*_

“She never loved you, you know that don't you, _Saaaruuuuhiiiiko~?”_

Every moment, he recalls the first burn that touched his skin; the first to ever touch his skin, back when he was seven years old and alone and afraid; when his father had been bored and manic, heartless and cruel. He recalls feeling as insignificant as the ants his father had once burnt – the ones Fushimi played with in the forgotten corner of the garden; the ones that fascinated him for all their insignificance and their ability to live so well despite it – so effectively and preparedly...

He recalls how he had struggled,as he realised what his father was so mockingly threatening to do, as one bony hand waved the lighter, back and forth, like a pendulum; the other holding him in place by the scruff of his neck. In every moment he recalls the fear that flooded him in that breath. Recalls the fear that dwelled in his mind and body in the hours that followed, as he lay on the floor and tried not to even breathe, as though doing so might earn him further torment.

This, now, this abuse and this mistreatment, is naught but a hollow echo of the first. Nothing will terrify him in the same way, not ever again; not now that he has conditioned himself to expect, to anticipate.

_To never hope._

“Saaaruuuuhiiiikooo~ Are you listening to me? Even you get that no one cares about you, right? Not that school, not your classmates... not that stupid little friend of yours... No ooone~” The singsong voice will haunt him, always, and pale fingers fist into the carpeted floor to control any other possible reaction to such words. He grits his teeth against any sounds that might escape from his throat, and waits.

There is no burn now – his father has tired of this game, it seems – only a hard foot, pressing down onto his outstretched hand. Unsympathetic.

“ _Oi._ Pay attention.”

It is not always like this.

His father has his lucid moments, more often than not, and in those – in those – that is when the abuse is psychological, relentless. That is when he simply treats Fushimi the way one would a bother, a nuisance... an insect.

This, here and now...

“Say it, Saruhikoooo~”

This is his father when he has truly lost his mind.

He grits his teeth and the world is naught but a spinning blur before his helpless eyes.

“Say it – 'no one loves me~'”

Burnt into the backs of his eyes, he sees auburn hair and an easy smile.

“No one loves me~~”

He spits out a mouthful of blood, and clicks his tongue in feigned-impatience, instead.

The hit that follows his insubordination doesn't seem to hurt so much, but watching – watching, hopelessly, as his father sets alight his rucksack – filled with scribblings and papers, notes passed between grubby hands – back and forth – in class... notes that those precious hands had touched and tainted...

Watching as he tosses the charred remains to the floor, with a sickening smile...

That hurts.

“ _Stop pretending anyone cares.”_

He doesn't have the nerve, this time, to offer any retort.

*

The echoes of Misaki's success burn through his ears – resound and enclose around him and he can scarcely breathe for all the overbearing pride these people seem to rain down upon his closest friend...

In turn, he...

In turn...

His hand feels as if it is on fire.

_It burns._

He grits his teeth as hard as he can, though the ache it causes by no mean outweighs the pain that shoots through his hand, up his arm and through his torso – corrupting every crevice of his body until nothing feels untainted, or unbroken.

“ _Oi. Pay attention.”_

The golden eyes boring into his own narrow; the grip becomes tighter.

_It hurts._

Fire surrounds his hand and _god how he wants to rip it free;_ wants to turn on his heel and get away as soon as he possibly can...

But he can feel Misaki's eyes on him, hopeful gaze full of desperation and need and for that...

For that he would brave anything.

He tightens his own grip; glares daggers into Mikoto's eyes – the fire he sees within them – and refuses to let go.

Even Fushimi knows the skin on his hand is reddening from the heat.

Any longer and it might blister, he thinks...

_A dark laugh, cruel and unkind._

He doesn't break that gaze.

This is far from what he wants – so far it seems foreign and unpleasant. So far that he can feel the anxiety lurking in the back of his mind, already... but even so...

_Soft, unjudging eyes and smiling lips. A touch that does not recoil in disgust..._

For Misaki... to remain by his side, Fushimi knows that this is the way it will have to be.

The burn pulses through his arm and strikes, snakelike, at the spot above his heart; harsh and aggressive, the sting feels unpleasantly familiar.

“ _No one...”_

The sweat beading on his sickly-white skin betrays his unease – his anxiousness – and even Fushimi knows that he cannot hold off the signs of pain and discomfort for much longer.

It feels as if someone is carving into the flesh – the bone.

It feels like the makings of a scar he will never erase.

Shoulders hunching, he feels his expression falter – watches as Suoh Mikoto's eyes narrow, just slightly – transforming his expression of calm disinterest, into one of caution. Of suspicion.

_If he listens closely..._

Something is wrong.

_He can still hear it..._

This isn't how he is supposed to be.

_The heavy sound of a door slamming, footsteps on the grass._

“ _Hey, Saruhiko. What's that you're playing with?”_

“Why'd you pull away?”

_Magnifying glass forced between tiny fingers; a larger hand tugging and demanding his actions..._

_Forcing..._

He blinks, confused, and stares at the form of crimson and destruction before him – the form whose hand remains outstretched, open... the form from which he has, unknowingly, retreated, his own hand pulled tight to his chest – gripping over his suddenly aching collarbone with boney, clawlike fingers...

_Even the cicadas had ceased their chorus..._

He doesn't remember moving.

_He can still smell burning in the air, hours later..._

Looking around him, he can tell from those judging expressions, that he has done something very, very wrong.

“ _Saruhiko, don't look so sad. Look at what you did...”_

“Saruhiko, are you okay?!” Misaki elbows his way to the front of the crowd, taking up the empty space by his side. Warmth seems to envelope him, radiate from his smaller form, and perhaps Fushimi would be grateful of that, were it not for the stark, glaring blemish standing proudly on his chest; revealed by the disheveled neckline of his too-large sweater... but those eyes are still staring into his, when he dares to let his gaze fall away from the Red King's own, and he cannot help his shaking hand from gripping, lightly, at the hem of one baggy sleeve.

“ _...it's better this way.”_

Holding onto the here and now, to keep those nightmares at bay...

“Saruhiko?” At the query, concerned and oh so genuine, he nods, numbly... only to feel a jolt in the pit of his stomach, when that warming gaze so quickly leaves his own; lands with an unmistakeable reverence upon the looming figure before the pair of teens; a gaze filled with admiration and appreciation – accompanied by pink cheeks and a hopeful smile... “S-Sorry, Mr Mikoto,” The voice sounds foreign, unrecognisable. _Stupid._ Saruhiko's hand tugs lightly on Misaki's sleeve – grips tighter as he forces his gaze from the redheads features and to the floor, instead, “he doesn't really like people touching him...”

“ _Instead of watching them slowly scatter away...”_

“Fair enough. It'd finished anyway, right?” With a nod of flaming red hair, a shrug of nonchalant shoulders, and a gaze of indifference, it seems as if Suoh Mikoto has signed Fushimi's death warrant; his body ceases to feel, in that moment. He doesn't stop his friend, from quietly tugging at his half-open collar, to reveal the red, irritated flesh beneath – clan marking standing starkly against flesh so white it seems almost grey in the poor light of bar HOMRA's interior.

Lost somewhere inside his own mind – surrounded by regret...

“ _...these things you like so much...”_

“Hey, Saruhiko, look, it's just like mine!” Pulling down his collar and urging Fushimi to do the same, Misaki's hands push and pull; demanding and unwelcome, for the first time in a long time... _he doesn't want this, and he doesn't understand how the boy before him cannot know that, too._ “We're really part of it all now!”

Somehow, it looks better on Misaki, he thinks to himself, as his half-lucid gaze travels slowly from peering at his own blemished flesh, to that of the other teen before him.

“ _Rather than that, isn't it better...”_

No hands clap against his back in congratulation; no kind or encouraging words are muttered down his ear – no cheers resound throughout the bar's interior, at the confirmation of Fushimi Saruhiko's initiation into HOMRA... into the Red Clan.

Quietly, and unsteadily, he takes a seat at the end of the bar, and tries to drown out the sound of Misaki's boisterous laughter, resounding all around him; sounding only for Suoh Mikoto, and these strange new people that neither of them truly, truly know...

“ _Isn't it better to destroy it on your own terms?”_

Misaki appears beside him, within a matter of minutes, and – with a grip on his arm and a smile on his lips – pulls him into conversations he doesn't understand, and company he never chose to keep.

But for now, there is Misaki, and maybe...

“Hey, S-Saruhiko...” Their breath clouds in the air before them, as they sit side by side at the bus-stop, waiting for the last bus home; a bite of cold in the midnight air forcing their figures closer, for warmth.

“Mm.”

“You...” And perhaps Misaki feels warmer, for the briefest of moments – and perhaps Fushimi notices that his redheaded friend cannot quite manage to look him in the eye – favours instead huddling into the scarf around his neck – staring at the coffee in his hands _(a parting gift from HOMRA's bartender, who insisted that they couldn't leave without something to keep them warm, and whom Misaki hadn't the heart to tell he disliked coffees without flavourings),_ and boasting cheeks so pink they could not have only been the work of the cold night air. “Thanks for.. I... really...”

“...are you trying to say you appreciate me?”

It's meant as a joke, but his tone is flat and Misaki jumps as if electrified by shock.

“H-HUH??!! N-no way! S-Shut up, I wasn't gonna say that at all!”

And maybe as his chuckle clouds in the air before his features, and Misaki's indignant but unmistakably embarrassed yells echo about them...

Maybe it is enough.

*

“You know Saruhiko, maybe if you were nice to people, you'd get into fewer fights!” Yata Misaki is berating him, dutifully, as he prods and pampers at cuts and bruises with a rubbing-alcohol-soaked cotton-bud. Fushimi hisses, lowly, as the bud grazes over a still open wound, and Misaki tuts softly, shakes his head – mumbles a soft apology that he will probably deny, out of pride, later; and then he continues. Leans close once again, and carefully cleans the blackened area around Fushimi's eye, where a gash has begun to swell and fester with infection. “'ch, seriously, how'd you even get beat up this bad? Didn't anyone stop to help you? Were you far from help?”

It continues for a while, like this; this fussing, and fretting – or Misaki's own special brand of it. Fushimi blocks it out, allows it to become background noise, and simply focusses on the feel of those hands that worry over his skin, softly poking and prodding – one firm hand gripping his shoulder and keeping him in place. The pad of Misaki's thumb, calloused from childhood play and years of pawing in dirt, climbing in trees, feels welcome against the jutting bones of his collar, where is has unknowingly slipped beyond the hem of his t-shirt and come to rest.

He closes his eyes and focusses on that touch – tells himself to let it be; not to ask for, or demand, more. Not to reach up his shaking, trembling hands, and grip that wrist so tight that those pink fingertips turn blue, and bones crack and shatter with the force of his affections...

“Oi, Saruhiko.” He blinks open heavy blue eyes, and stares into the brown irises focussed upon him. “Your hand...”

He doesn't know when it happened. Doesnt understand because he _told himself not to._ He is gripping Misaki's wrist – tight and painful, the grip is too much, and he can see those fingertips turning blue – can see the contortion of those digits, forced, by discomfort, into unpleasant and unnatural positions...

Dropping the hand, Fushimi turns his head, and pulls his arm close to his chest... or tries to, at least, until...

“O-oi! What the hell is that?!” It is Misaki's turn, now – he grips Fushimi's arm with bruising force, pulling it – _yanking it –_ into his line of vision, to stare upon the place where his shirt sleeve has ridden up...

To where the extent of his father's sad excuse for 'love' can be witnessed, against the pale white flesh Fushimi usually hides.

He clicks his tongue, and rolls his eyes, trying to pull his arm free. “It's nothing, Misaki-” Only his arm refuses to budge, and eyes so intense that he cannot dare to look away from them, stare into his relentlessly.

Fushimi understands that the bruise, and the scabbed, healing gash it surrounds, looks old.

_The laptop smashes against the wall beside him – ricochets off and catches his arm before he can dodge it._

“ _Silly, silly, you shouldn't be playing on that when I'm talking to you, Saruhiko – look at what you've gone and done now.”_

He cannot pass it off, as he has done with his other wounds, as the result of some street-brawl he got into because of his unpleasant manner, or impatient nature.

“Saruhiko...”

“ _It's your fault it's broken, now.”_

The concern in his tone, as his gaze falls from Fushimi's, and his hands, once rough and harsh, loosen, become gentle, and cover the old wound as if hiding it might cease its existence...

And perhaps, for once, Fushimi doesn't have to force himself to smile.

*

“Fushimi. There have been some concerns expressed, regarding the way you… maintain yourself, outside of working hours.”

He clicks his tongue at the phone, and continues all that he was doing before the rude interruption of his co worker, and superior, Awashima Seri's, voice; but still, he doesn't bother turning off the voicemail. It is too much like effort and he doesn't care enough either way, to bother with it – the voice, he knows, will crackle and fade soon enough. Leave him in deafening silence, like anything and everything else that came before it.

The distorted, scarred blemish – the remnants of his past errors in judgement – burns and tingles upon his chest, and sharp nails reach absently to tear at the already wounded flesh.

“It is not my business how you maintain yourself personally. However...” He clicks his tongue again; hard enough to feel it against the roof of his mouth like a dull ache. There is a half finished can of cold coffee sat on his nightstand, and he plucks it from it's place with pale, boney fingers, and downs the contents with a grimace as the voice message continues. A half finished pack of caffeine pills and energy bars sit side by side on the window ledge, and he knows as well as any of his coworkers, that they will never be consumed. “If this would in any way affect your performance during missions or assignments, it must be considered as cause for-”

He shuts it off with a flick to the buttons on the screen – a hard thwack with uncaring fingers; not even bothering to look at the device before his digits collide with the screen. Perhaps it's immature of him, but really, he doesn't need to hear it.

He can take care of himself.

Even if he admits the reflection that stares back at him, semi-transparent through the window pane, and distorted by the fading light of day that streams through the window, is emaciated and pale.

Even when he admits that, he still...

Fingers dig into the tarnished flesh upon his collar.

_Get used to it..._

*

“Saruhiko!” Misaki's voice resounds, and he finds himself looking towards the source instantaneously – grey eyes, usually dull and listless, seem to shimmer with colour, when seeking such a sight. The vision of auburn locks and honey coloured eyes, that outshine the world itself. “You didn't eat your lunch.”

Fushimi sighs, heavily, and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth – but the action is more of a habit than anything else. He doesn't mind that Misaki worries about him; revels in it, instead. Feeds off the care and compassion his only real friend is willing to offer him, so readily. They sit side-by-side on the school roof, Fushimi with a battered old handheld games console (Misaki's, not his – he would never take such poor care of technology) clasped in his lithe hands, and the redhead with his half-demolished bento held up before his friend's gaze – a bottle of soda in his other hand, and a frown on his features.

Fushimi doesn't mean to sound impatient when he speaks, it's just a habit.

“...What?”

“Don't 'what' me.” Misaki's honey brown eyes roll back, and his shoulders seem to stiffen with long-accepted aggravation, as he shuffles from his place against the roof's railing, to sit in front of the dark-haired teen, demanding his attention. Said teen does not bother to glance up from the game flashing on the screen before him. “Oi.” He can almost hear his friends eyebrows twitching in annoyance, and fights the urge to smirk. “You didn't bring any lunch again, so you can share mine.”

“Feed it to me, Misaki.”

It's a joke.

He doesn't mean it.

He doesn't even look up from the screen before his eyes – just mockingly holds open his mouth as if expecting food to be placed there.

_And he doesn't mean it._

But maybe what Misaki has always claimed about him having no sense for comedy was true; because with nearly naught in the way of a pause, a clump of rice is pushed between his waiting lips by calloused fingertips, that graze his skin as they press the morsel of food into his mouth.

He chokes on the grains promptly, as they were so very unexpected, and tries to hold back fits of laughter as Misaki flusters and flounders about him.

But even as little food as the few morsels of rice that slipped down his throat, had never before tasted so good; and not because they were lovingly prepared by Misaki's mother, or because they were the first thing Fushimi had ingested, besides fluids, in almost three days, but because Misaki cared enough to want him to eat it. To do something as embarassing as _feed him,_ if it might convince him to eat.

And perhaps he did accept the leftovers of Misaki's lunch, when the laughter had faded, and they sat, slumped against one another, breathless and cheerful, games console laying forgotten on the concrete beside them, chests juddering in time... and maybe, just maybe, it didn't seem so bad, to treat himself well, for once. Not when Misaki wanted him to do so, too, and dutifully pressed the food to his lips, until none remained.

*

“You're underweight.”

The doctors words are not harsh, or accusatory; only bland. Stating a fact. The walls surrounding them are as pristine and white as any other room in the Scepter 4 base, and Fushimi is not thankful for it. Recalls too many of these rooms from his youth, and does not wish to experience them again, if he can avoid it. His hand absently reaches up to his collarbone, slipping beneath the folds of his shirt, and grazes harshly against the still-blistered burn that lurks there.

He didn't agree to a full physical, and so the blemish hasn't been noted. Anything the doctor has deduced, has been from simple observation...

“I'm well enough to do my job, right? Does it really matter...?” His tone is one of boredom, aggravation; one that expresses that he has heard these comments a thousand times before, and more on top of that.

“Honestly, I'm wondering how you're even able to handle walking, in your current condition.”

He wonders how the man's innards would look, decorating all of the walls that surround them, as he absently picks at a freshly formed scab, and chuckles a little to himself – audibly, as he does so.

“Your health, or lack of, Fushimi, is hardly a laughing matter.”

His next words – his retaliation - see him exiled from the doctors office for the foreseeable future, and he does not even pretend to be offended, or displeased... and so, when Munakata enquires as to the results of his physical, he simply grunts, shrugs, and no more is spoken of the matter, beyond Munakata congratulating him on being given the stamp of approval that would allow him to properly begin his work as a Lieutenant of Scepter 4. As a member of the Blue clan...

Awashima Seri asks, briefly, why the resident physician has requested that Fushimi's health be dealt with by another doctor in the future, but Munakata waves dismissively in response to the query – a more polite rendition of the glare Fushimi himself sends in reply.

“All that matters it that our new Lieutenant is capable of taking up active duty immediately, wouldn't you agree, Miss Awashima?” And, following her grudging nod, the Blue King does not follow up the conversation at a later time; it is, it seems, Fushimi's business, and that is how it should remain, it seems.

This is how he likes to exist.

On his own terms, alone, and unbothered.

_His nails graze across blistered skin until it breaks._

*

“So Saruhiko, how are things with your parents?”

“Fine.”

He knows what to say.

“Has it been hard for you, since your mother and father no longer live together? Does it make things difficult at school?”

“No, my dad does his best, and I help around the house after school, since he's no good at housework.”

“Ah... well, you've answered my next question – I was going to ask why you haven't joined any school clubs, but I suppose-”

“It's not feasible.”

He knows just what to say.

“Yes, I can see it would be difficult to balance...”

“Yeah.”

“...isnt that upsetting? Isnt it sad that you can't take part in clubs?”

“Not really. I don't like sports anyway.”

“What about the computer club? Your teachers tell me you like gadgets and-”

“I can do that at home, after I've helped around the house.”

He knows just what to say, to cut off this interrogation and free himself from the scrutiny he so despises.

“...but isn't it hard to make friends living like that, Saruhiko?”

“No.”

_I dont need friends._

“I make friends just fine, but right now... my family is the most important thing.”

He knows just what to say, to find himself walking – shuffling, his head down and bangs cast over his eyes, smoothing over the harsh frames of his glasses – out of the Councillors office, within the space of one short hour, and without a request for a follow-up meeting. It is simple – it is easy, and nothing he cannot manage; he doesn't even need to smile, only emphasise that he can prioritise that which is most important.

In reality, his father can take care of himself, if one can call it that; they hire a housekeeper to do the worst of the cleaning; and Saruhiko himself prepares his own meals, sets his own bedtime, and manages his own affairs.

It has been that way for years now, despite his youth...

He doesn't know any different.

It is broken and distorted; a caricature of proper familial existence, but it is there, and it is a constant.

The familiarity is comforting.

He is half-way down the corridor leading to the main doors, when a body bumps into his as it makes a swift turn around the stairwell corner; short and skinny, the body belongs to a classmate whose name he does not care to know... whose face he does not care to remember.

Their voice is gratingly loud when it resounds a rushed apology.

“Sorry, running! Gonna be late for detention!”

He tsks, low under his breath.

“You're already late.” It's not because he cares, or because he wants to speak to this person any longer, but because idiocy is not something he can stand; that is why he speaks again. “And you're going the wrong way, stupid.”

“HAH?! AWH SHIT I'M GONNA BE SO LATE!!”

The body bumps into his again, and he almost swivels to throw a punch into the other boy's face; knock him down and perhaps, even, press one of his shoes against the soft spot on his skull, and push, push, push until he squeals and screams and _cracks_...

Red oozes through his vision and his fingers twitch and itch to harm and destroy-

Auburn locks flutter by in a hurry, and his hand stays in place at his side.

It's not worth it.

Sneakers squeak into the distance; a door slams open and then closed in the blink of an eye.

_He knows exactly how he is supposed to behave._

With a heavy, grounding sigh, Fushimi Saruhiko puts his trembling hands into his uniform pockets, and begins the long and lonely walk home.

*

His room seems bare and unused, when he contemplates it late one night – long after other Scepter 4 members have put their lights out and fallen into the warm embrace of a good night's sleep; long after the last of the patrols had run, and the last heads had hit soft pillows. Long after late night coffees and cheerful conversation had faded into nothingness...

_Can't sleep._

It happens all too often lately.

_Can't sleep._

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as hands absently rub the reddened, aching bruise; tarnish on deathly white skin of his exposed neck... his fingertips linger there.

Can still feel the dented ridges of harsh nails.

_Something to do._

He traces his fingers over them, as if they are a lovers kiss – a gentle and caring gesture, and not the violent act they truly are.

_He needs something to do._

Eyes linger on the unlit screen of his PDA – debating, wondering...

If he were to ask...

_If I asked you to..._

Boney fingers twitch in his lap, dither uselessly, and he clicks his tongue in impatience at his own foolish actions.

Go to bed, he tells himself; not daring to touch that blemish again – this time touching his fingertips to the distorted ridges of a long-healed burn. A reminder. A constant.

Never to trust again.

He doesn't trust himself to touch the PDA, for fear of what he might do; instead simply crawls under the sheets and tries to ignore the pounding question in his mind.

_Go to sleep._

The bruise seems to burn in his skin as he forces his eyes shut.

_Don't_ _t think._

Behind his eyelids he sees it all again.

_Sleep._

It might be the death of him, one day, this feeling.

_If I asked you to, would you...?_

*

“You don't talk much, do you, kid?” Kusanagi Izumo eyes Fushimi cautiously across the bar, as he cleans glasses and places them; neatly, in a a row so symmetrical that it makes the teen think of obsessive compulsive behaviour, and therapy sessions. His bony fingers tap the polished wood surface before him, and he can almost feel the HOMRA bartender's gaze burning into the thin flesh, as if urging the motion to stop; threatening him wordlessly.

He hopes, in the back of his mind, that he leaves grease smudges there.

_He doesn't know why he is here._

“Oi, Saru!!” Kamamoto's voice is agitating; like nails running down a chalkboard, the sound travels up from low in Fushimi's gut and around his throat like choking fingertips, making him want to wretch; it continues up into the recesses of his mind, where it reverberates against a nerve he always wondered existed in anyone besides himself... it didn't seem to, for all those things that annoyed him, aggravated him; all these things he could not stand... none of them seemed to bother anyone else. “Yata said to come and get you, we're going to the Mall, and you have to come to.”

“Why?”

If Misaki isn't the one asking him, then he doesn't want to know.

_Dont forget that I exist._

“Beats me, I still don't get why he even likes you, but he said you had to come too.” Every word is like a pinprick in Fushimi's patience, which wore thin far too often in this place to begin with; he shuts his eyes, listening to the incessant squeak of cloth against glass, as Kusanagi went about his day-to-day routine. Listening to the rasping breaths of his latest companion, who had obviously rushed into the bar to invite him along, lest he face Misaki's wrath...

_Why couldn't you just be the one to ask?_

If it was so urgent, however...

“No.”

Then Misaki could invite him himself.

“Hey, Yata told me to bring you out. He wants you to come to the mall with him, me, Shohei and Bando-”

“No.”

“Yata sai-”

He clicks his tongue, loudly, and side-eyes Kamamoto as one would a bothersome insect, or parasite they had thoughts of exterminating... and with his tail between his legs, the other male exits the bar. Kusanagi's gaze is unwavering, from across the bar, as both he and Fushimi wait for the inevitable. There might even be pity, hidden behind those sunglasses, but it is hard to tell, and Fushimi would rather pretend it is not there – does not want it, nor need it.

“SARUHIKO!!”

The calling out of his name is in no way reminiscent of any of the ways in which Fushimi wishes it would be; there is no fondness within that sound, no kindness, or welcome. Only annoyance – impatience. _Annoyance? What for? What had he done... when had he earned such venomous tones?_

They argue; or, more accurately, Misaki argues with what may as well be a brick wall. Fushimi has no intention of listening to his rantings and ravings regarding 'making new friends', or 'making him look bad in front of the guys', or even his ridiculous insistence that he would _like them_ if he got to know them. He already knows he will not; he does not like people, not generally speaking...

Fushimi wants it to go back to the way it was _before._

_He and Misaki, just the two of them._

A vein throbs somewhere in the back of his neck.

Misaki's voice is grating.

His tone is an annoyance.

_Broken record playing over and over._

“Why wont you talk to them?!”

_You're not good enough._

“Why do you have to be so awkward and unkind?!”

_You're not good enough._

“You're going to ruin this for both of us!”

“ _Just not good enough, Saaaarruuuuhhhiiiiikooo~”_

His eyes are wide and he doesn't understand when it was that he pushed himself to his feet; when his fist slammed into the bar so hard that he can feel the bruise already spreading across his skin; seeping into muscle and bone. He doesn't understand when it was, that he bit so hard on the insides of his mouth that he cut them, filling his taste-buds with the coppery tang of blood.

He doesn't understand when he started screaming back at Misaki, or when that broken look appeared on the redheads face.

All he knows is...

“ _Saarrruuuhhiiiikkkoooo, you know you just ruin everything dont you?”_

He doesn't bother picking up his coat from the back of his chair, as he shoves past Misaki's frozen form – shaking, shaking, why wont his limbs stop shaking? - and out of the bar, into the cold evening air.

_Wouldn't it be better to do it on your own terms?_

_\---_

Their apartment is empty when he eventually gets back; shaking and shivering hands fumble to place the key into the lock – his forgotten coat still likely sat upon the back of the barstool where he had left it. His phone was somewhere in its pockets, too; a fact he had found himself regretting, once he realised he had wandered almost nine solid miles, without so much of an idea of where he was, or how he got there – slipping in and out of lucidity, as he wandered through the city streets... he walked approximately twelve more, to get home, on numb feet through snow-filled streets that he sullied with his very presence - each step a blemish of which he was too worn and tired to even be proud...

His blue tipped fingers and wind burnt cheeks, along with the rasping of his breath, and the frost beginning to form upon his hair, betray his self-abuse.

He wants Misaki to be there with him.

He wants Misaki to scold him, to tell him he is an idiot; to tell him he needs to take better care of himself, before wrapping him up in a warm blanket – clambering into it with him, and warming him to his core with that affection that no one else would ever care to offer...

But Misaki is not there.

Misaki would run him a bath, he thinks, but he hasn't the energy left in him to do so himself; Misaki would make sure he ate, he thinks, but he hasn't the care to force any substance down his frostbitten lips; Misaki would make him change his snow-dampened clothes, dress in something warm and comfortable, lay down side-by-side with him, and help him settle his agitated mind into sleep.

_Misaki is not there._

Trudging heavily towards the bedroom, he sheds his soaked jumper, and dumps it unceremoniously upon the hallway floor as he goes; his stiff fingers, still frozen to the bone, could not have held onto it anyway. His glasses went with the article but he doesn't even notice.

“ _Saruhiko...”_

His shoulder catches on the doorframe and he stumbles forwards, arms awkward and unfeeling as he tries to reach out and steady himself; only falling flat on his face, adding insult to his injury.

“ _This is our new apartment, Saruhiko, so we should have a party to celebrate!”_

“ _There's only two of us.”_

He doesn't understand it...

“ _Who needs more than that? It's fine if it's just the two of us!”_

When did it become like this?

He pulls himself up, onto his hands and knees, and fists numb hands into the folds of Misaki's bunk; breathing in the smell of those sheets, he tries to steady himself, but the world is blurred, for reasons more than his astigmatism, or his loosening grip on reality.

His body feels hot all over, but he knows he is freezing half to death.

“ _To our new home!”_

“ _'tsk. I guess...”_

He breathes in, hard, against Misaki's pillow, as he curls himself into a tight ball at the foot of the bed.

Home.

“ _Mom? Dad...?”_

_Tiny fingers twist around the envelope at the bottom of the stairwell._

“ _Saruhiiikkkooo....”_

What even was that?

“ _She's not coming back, see? Can you read? Read, read, read~ It makes no difference, who cares, mmm? It's not like you care, do you?”_

_The shove is harsh, and he stumbles on the stairwell, barely able to keep his footing._

A home is a laughable concept, after all.

“ _Sarruuuuhhhiiiikkkooo, don't look so sad. You were hiding this toy under your bed, but I made it better. Now it's broken just like you, see?”_

_It smashes against the wall beside his head, but he doesn't even blink in reaction._

Somewhere safe.

_The smell of searing flesh fills his senses and the world blacks out; unpleasant, unpleasant, unpleasant. He must pretend; pretend he has no feelings, pretend he does not exist._

_His eyes disconnect from his consciousness._

_He locks himself away somewhere, deep inside his mind, and perhaps, this way, tucked away from reality, from pain and trauma and abuse, at least a tiny part of himself might remain..._

Safe?

His body judders with a wrecked sob, strangled, hopeless.

Something inside him does not feel the same.

_Broken._

*

“Saruhiko, why don't you tell me about your relationship with your parents?”

“It's fine.”

He knows just what to say.

“Nothing bad? Nothing you need to talk about?”

“No.”

Exactly what he needs to say.

“...nothing at all? Do your parents get along?”

“There's only me and my father at home... but we get on fine. He's doing his best.”

Sound grateful, he tells himself.

“Oh... I'm sorry to hear that-”

Sound like you have your life in order.

“It's fine. I'm doing well at school.”

“There's more to life than grades, Saruhiko. We're here to talk about you... as a person, not as a number on the school's exam result charts.” Liar, he thinks, numbly, though he forces a pleasant expression. “Do you take part in any school clubs? Your teachers seem to think you're rather reserved...”

“I need to get home to help with the house, since dad isn't so good with that.”

Mentioning his lack of a maternal figure excuses him, he knows, from after school activities. He knows exactly what he has to say...

“I can understand that, Saruhiko, but... surely...”

He knows exactly-

“Don't you have friends?”

“I-” His tongue sticks in his mouth, as behind his eyes he sees a vision of red hair and vibrant brown eyes.

The therapist's lips quirk up at the edges, just so; a little triumph in her gaze.

_Ah._

“Yo! Saruhiko, what took so long? You didn't get held back in detention, did you?” Misaki is waiting for him, when he walks out of the school gate, shoulders slumped, expression dark. That had not gone entirely to plan, and the follow-up meeting is an unwelcome parting gift from the school counsellor, whom he had hoped he would only have the displeasure of offering his attention to once, at most.

“Just an errand. It's over.” Misaki falls into step beside him, as he continues out of the school grounds, and along the pavement – following the line of sakura trees that stand like pillars up and down the length of the road.

“Want to come to my house and play some video games? I got that new tag-team fighter one, the one you wanted when we were shopping last weekend! Let's go play it!” The hand on his arm is demanding, but not harsh, and perhaps he doesn't care enough to fight against it...

Or maybe, just maybe, this is his way of accepting the only offer of friendship he has ever known.

It's hard to keep his distance, when that grip is so relentless, and he has not the will to pull away.

He hopes they can stay like this forever; this careless existence, in their small little world together.

Just the two of them.

*

After the incident at bar HOMRA, the night Fushimi lay riddled with fever – mind addled with unwelcome thoughts and visions; the light behind his eyes dimmed by clotted blood and torn flesh and broken limbs – nothing was the same again. Misaki returned to the apartment, accompanied by Kamamoto, sometime in the morning... but Fushimi himself was too flu-ridden to really comprehend when the return had occurred.

A scuffle with the Green clan became an all-out clan war.

Fushimi wanted none of it.

He still remembers stumbling blearily to the bathroom the following morning – practically on his hands and knees – and vomiting profusely into the toilet.

Remembers Kamamoto's yell of 'gross' from somewhere behind him.

Remembers Misaki asking if he was alright.

Remembers turning his bleary gaze, reaching out a shaking hand, just in time to witness the door closing shut behind him.

_Coward._

Misaki hadn't even been able to do as little look at him for over a week.

_Look at me._

He smashed the bathroom mirror in spite, stared blankly at the shards that littered the sink, the floor... Left it for Misaki to clean up, whenever he got home.

_Look at me._

He threw the meals Misaki left for him, safe in tupperware boxes in the fridge, into the trash, containers and all.

_Look._

He _wallowed_ for weeks, huddled into the darkness of their shared bedroom, safe and secure on the top bunk of the bed; beneath the canopy of the duvet pulled over his head.

Misaki left him be; came in and out of the apartment only to sleep.

Totsuka and Kusanagi came to visit more often than once – spoke to Fushimi more in those weeks than his best friend did, even if the teen himself made little effort with his responses, and made them tea or coffee only when he himself wanted some. They made sure he ate - even the smallest of quantities were viewed as a success - made sure he got outside, even if only to run brief shopping errands; Totsuka hanging off his arm and throwing unnecessary things into their basket, and Kusanagi dutifully chucking them back out with a sigh and a good-natured grumble of complaint.

It feels like a poor effort at pantomiming a family unit.

_He cannot trust them. Misaki probably told them to do it._

He didn't thank them.

_He never asked for this._

The incidents with the Green clan forced away all awkwardness between himself and Misaki, eventually; but at a cost...

Fushimi's hands shake, as he picks up the first drink Kusanagi forces into his hands back at bar HOMRA, with a hurried mumble of 'drink, okay? Just drink', before the bartender rushes to prepare a glass for himself, and for Bando, who looks as horrifically unwell as Fushimi feels. Neither gang member mention that Fushimi is underage, and should not be ingesting the crystal clear liquid Kusanagi has so hurriedly prepared for him – neither flutter an eyelash as the teen downs the glass in one quick gulp... the blonde only moves to abruptly refill it, urging him to down it with the same vigour as the first, as he does the same with his own drink- allowing Bando to refill his own glass.

It is all in the aim of forcing their stomachs to churn, to flip, and twist, until bile rises from their throats and forces out all remnants of the Green clan's poisonous gas; canisters of which littered the escape route from the warehouse they had raided.

It was unexpected. An ambush.

A mistake they cannot afford to make again, lest it not turn out so well in the future.

Three double shots of undiluted vodka later, and Kusanagi forces a glass of salt-water into Fushimi's hand; the alcohol already in his system prevents his better judgement from shying away from downing it, too. He is already being herded into the bathroom to the side of the bar, when his stomach begins to twist uncomfortably, and the ever-supportive bartender keeps a hand on his shoulder, through his suffering; quietly gulping down his own glass of salt-ridden water all the while.

Bando groans from the stall beside them, and Kusanagi briefly excuses himself from his watch over Fushimi to be neatly sick in the adjascent toilet.

They sit, silent, nursing fresh glasses of vodka – diluted with soda, this time – when Misaki, Totsuka, and Mikoto make their return; dishevelled, out of breath. Obviously having run the whole way back... there is a cut above Misaki's shin, a bruise on his right cheek, what looks like a black eye beginning to form above it, and his expression shows the discomfort of his injuries.

Something uncomfortably similar to amusement stirs in Fushimi's stomach.

_This was the life you asked for._

His stomach churns.

Misaki is rounding upon him in an instant.

“Saruhiko!! What the hell happened? Why do you look so pale?!” He practically trips over himself getting to the bar – and actually trips over the stool when he arrives, stumbling forward and latching onto Fushimi's front to steady himself. Fingers fisting in the other teens jacket. “Hey! Y-you're covered in sweat!”

He tsks, clicks his tongue hard against the inside of his own mouth... but he doesn't swat those prying hands away – barely puts up any defence.

_Only you have the right._

He isn't sure if what he is feeling is true, or a twist of his dysfunctional mind, but...

_'I missed you.'_

Words he will never say lie in wait on his fearing tongue; numb from nerves and insecurity. Helpless to utter words they have never before formed.

_'I...'_

But suddenly the redhead looks concerned, and those hands gripping his cardigan seem to loosen their grip – the touch softens, becomes one of worry than one of aggression. “S-Saruhiko you- you're alright, right? Have you lost weight?” The genuine concern in those honey-coloured eyes is almost too much; had he the strength of heart, and the steadiness of body, Fushimi might have tried to avoid such a gaze... and yet...

“Only a little.”

He cant explain it.

“But I've been leaving you food! Weren't you eating it?”

_What do I feel?_

“What happened?” Totsuka has reached Kusanagi's side, a hand on his friends shoulder and concern in his gaze.

“Green Clan.” Kusanagi's words are uttered coldly, calmly, as he nurses his vodka across the bar from their young members' antics; stopping Misaki in his tracks, hands still fisted in Fushimi's clothes, mid-way through tugging them this way and that in search of an injury he is somehow convinced is there. Fushimi's own hands, pale, harsh with angles and bones, rest over Misaki's wrists, and he quietly, foolishly, thanks Kusanagi for the interruption; Misaki's stillness means their touch might last just a few brief seconds longer, and _god_ has he missed it.

His fingers twitch, as he feels Misaki's muscles shift beneath them – relax.

_Dont you dare let go of me._

He'll dig his nails in, if he has to.

“Your glasses steamed up.” Mikoto Suoh's voice forces the nerves in Fushimi's back to convulse – tighten and snap into contraction – forces him to sit up straight, like an animal awaiting attack. His hands grip unintentionally tightly into Misaki's forearms, and the brunette yelps a little, pulling them free in an instant.

“Ouch, you should cut those shorter, Saruhiko, they're like claws.” Misaki grumbles, as he shakes his sore wrists, and looks back to Mikoto with a reverence he has never offered to anyone else.

Not even Fushimi.

_Yeah._

He digs those nails hard into his own palms, revelling in the sting.

_They are._

*

His fingers brush the base of Misaki's spine – tracing the ridges and bones as if to memorise them. To learn them so well that his own jagged edges might feel foreign, unfamiliar... so that he might not recognise them at all, and focus only on this perfect form before him instead.

Misaki twitches in his sleep – just so – just enough that Fushimi's hand veers back in reaction, as if burned... or as if afraid that it might be, should he not play his childish game of adoration and longing more carefully.

He waits with his hand pulled into his own chest, as Misaki stirs; holds onto the fingers, which, usually deathly cold, retain the warmth that his friend seems to simply _radiate_... physically and metaphorically, Fushimi supposes, silently, as he watches the gradual evening-out of the redheads breathing, as he settles back into undisturbed sleep. It is comforting... grounding.

It holds Fushimi to this place; this plane of existence.

The skin across Misaki's back seems to shift in Fushimi's vision; moves as if something lurks beneath it, and he cannot help himself from perhaps attempting to capture whatever it is, that this person holds that fascinates him so... and before he knows it he is leant over Misaki – away from his own futon, and lurking in the darkness of the room above his friend like some nightmare being.

His fingers, long and thin, naught but skin stretched over bone, jagged and sharp, press into the soft flesh in an attempt to capture the moving thing beneath the surface. The redhead stirs once more, but does not wake, and those fingers only press harder – cut deeper – that special _something_ evading Fushimi's touch at every moment, slipping through his fingertips despite his efforts...

He thinks he sees it there, settled between the joint of Misaki's shoulder and spine, and would tear through flesh and blood and bone to obtain it, if he could.

Only all of a sudden the blood staining his hands already warns him not to – the feeling of liquid, warm and congealing, warns him to stop before he goes too far...

He blinks, and observes the blood across his palms – dripping from his fingers...

And yet he has not moved from his place upon his own futon – not so much as leant forwards, to within reaching distance of his friend, whose back rises and falls as steadily as ever. His hands are held taut at his sides – nails digging so deep into his palms that he can _feel_ the pulsing and throbbing of his veins and arteries, as coppery fluid seeps over his skin and stains it in some gruesome décor...

His stomach flips.

Bloodstained hands scrabble for something to hold onto – something to ground him.

He finds Misaki's shoulder – digs his already blood clotted fingertips into the skin there so deeply that his friend awakens with a startled yelp; rolls over instantly on his futon, ready to deliver a deft punch to his assailant...

Only for his honey-brown eyes to widen in shock and horror at the sight before him.

It takes two hours for Fushimi to be calmed by soothing hands and worried words; helpless floundering, gentle caresses... he grips onto Misaki like a lifeline, leaving bruises that he will be quietly proud of, the next morning.

Bruises that he will quietly resent himself for causing.

Hate himself for inflicting on Misaki's flesh...

Wish he could have cut deeper and deeper, left a dark stain on more than just soft flesh...

“Saruhiko... d-do you need...?”

Fushimi shakes his head, bites his lip before his mouth can betray his reality, and grips onto Misaki tighter as they sit, tangled and crumpled – a defeated mess, as they have been all night, in the rumpled sheets of the futon.

Neither open the curtains that day, but the feel of Misaki's breathing in the darkness is enough.

_He is there._

*

His fingers, harsh and angular like jagged bones, press against the ridges of Misaki's ribcage and cut into flesh with the force of his disgusting desire; nails like talons slice the skin and his fingertips dip inside the supple flesh, blood seeping and pooling onto his hands - slipping down his forearms. His wrists. some horrid pantomime of an unforgivable act.

One he has contemplated, selfishly, out of boredom.

Fingers probe deeper between those bones, scathing and scratching and _claiming_ and he hears the older boy _moan_ at every seething intrusion.

"Do you like that, Misaki?"

His fingers splay wider – slicing and stretching flesh from the inside out and his eyes narrow - pupils dilate - as he watches in sick and wrong, wrong - _oh so wrong_ \- pleasure as crimson stains the sheets beneath them and the body against his shudders and shakes and...

"Sa-Saruhiko, stop..."

Teeth tug at Misaki's earlobe, pull and pry and clench hard enough that he feels warm liquid against the palette of his tongue, and he groans, lowly, as that slight body shudders in agony against his. His own shudders in turn, for an entirely different reason; Misaki's breath hitches, a gasp escaping from swollen, bitten lips and oh, is it satisfying, Fushimi thinks, to hear such sounds being let out for him.

Only for him.

_His._

Flipping the smaller body, his teeth sink deeply into the stark outline of Misaki's collarbone, until blood and flesh part before him and he feels solid bone grating against his mouth.

He can hear screaming – feel desperate, helpless hands clawing at him – nails catching at his arms and face and neck in a hopeless attempt to break free. One jagged cuticle cuts him, sharply, beneath the eye and oh how he _feels it._ How he _adores_ the sensation of blood trickling down his face – staining Misaki's dithering, trembling hands...

The screaming gets louder.

Louder.

His ragged breaths escape, pressed against Misaki's ear so that he can _hear what he does_. Hear how he ruins his best friend, rotting him from the inside out; unnoticeable, until the core is naught but hollowed grime and the helpless, empty skin caves in around it...

He bites into the bone to leave his mark.

_Mine._

A sickening crack resounds into the heady air.

_Misaki screams._

Fushimi wakes... and he is not where he thought himself to be.

His head is spinning, body shaking and trembling uncontrollably. His sheets are tangled about his limbs – a sheen of cold sweat coats his skin, has seeped through his clothing, his blanket and pillow, and left the item drenched, cold and clammy.

The clinical white walls of his Scepter 4 room surround him as he wretches into the pristine pallet of his en suite toilet: vomit splatters across clean porcelain, reeking through his senses relentlessly – melding with the coppery stench of blood that corrodes him from the inside out. Dirty, tainted blood that burns like fire through his veins.

He _burns._

“Fushimi, are you alright?”

At Awashima's words – at her unwelcomed, unwanted presence in the small place he knows as his world, now... this tiny sanctuary that remains - he clicks his tongue so hard against the roof of his mouth that the muscle goes numb.

She stands back, behind the frame of the doorway, to offer him his personal space.

There is no comforting embrace.

No kind words.

Only clinical white, and focussed professionalism.

“With all due respect, ma'am, I'd prefer if you'd knock next time.”

*

His hands are shaking.

_Scared_ _y-cat, scaredy-cat._

Limbs heavy as lead.

_What a big baby, Saruhikooo..._

The heart monitor beeps, infrequent and weak.

He still seems to big, in comparison to the child Fushimi feels in his presence....

_Stupid stupid Saruhiko. Don't you know no one loves you?_

It seems as if its been an age, since he looked upon this man, and yet it's really not been long at all....

His fingers twitch at his sides.

_That stupid new friend of yours, the loudmouth..._

The rasping, weak breaths coming from that bony ribcage sound like a pantomime of the sickening chuckle he is used to hearing.

_You really think he likes you at all?_

Dust hangs in the air, filtering through the slivers of light – dim, tinted green - that flutter through the slits in the blinded windows.

_It's probably because he has nothing better to do._

_No one really loves you at a-_

The vase on the bedside table smashes against the opposite wall.

That body doesn't stir.

_Say something._

His hands are trembling. He doesn't know when he got so close – so close to this strangers bedside that he can make out all of the greying hairs at their temple – the wrinkles forming around their eyes.

He doesn't understand when he grabbed onto the blankets to tightly that his knuckles went white.

The beeping is too loud.

_You're wrong._

Too slow.

_Say anything._

It seems to be getting slower.

_Tell him._

So very slow – like those ragged breaths, up and down...

His lips attempt to move – his throat feels dry and choked, tongue suddenly stuck in his own mouth.

A breath escapes from the chapped lips of the fading body before him, and almost – somehow – it sounds like the ghost of a blood-curdling laugh he knows so well...

“You...”

Suddenly, silence.

Not a ragged, desperate breath.

Not an echoing, unsettling beep.

Fushimi's hands drop from the blankets, slow. Hopeless.

Nothing.

Word he could never find the strength to say.

_You're wrong._

*

“You really like Yata, don't you, Saruhiko?”

Totsuka's use of his first name, something no one in HOMRA besides Misaki have ever dared to use, puts him in a sour mood instantly: he looks grumpily down at the drink in his hand – some 'mocktail' concoction that Totsuka had been trying out mixing – 'a new hobby!' he had insisted, as he poured over volume after volume of 'how-to' books, and watched videos online. It tastes poor – another failed attempt to join the many other hobbies the blonde has undertaken in the short 7 months in which Fushimi and Misaki had been members of the Red clan's gang; the brunette forces his expression into a grimace, dark and unpleasant, and hunches over the bar more stiffly than before.... Apparently, his disinterest is not off putting enough for HOMRA's 'mother hen'.

“Well~?”

“Why?” He doesn't know why he asks... maybe it's the mischief in those eyes, that observe him from where Totsuka playfully props his chin upon his hands, elbows on the bar – something Kusanagi will likely berate him for later (when he's done showing Misaki the collection of weapons the gang has garnered in a recent raid – Fushimi can hear his best friend, and the idiots with whom he keeps his company, of late – cooing and crying over the items somewhere behind him, and is in no mood for their stupidity). Perhaps he asks because it's simply nice to find someone else interested in him – his life, his mind, his thoughts... feelings...

Or maybe, maybe he's just trying to be daring. He doesn't know himself, but maybe that's a problem he is never going to grow out of.

“Why? You mean, why am I asking?” Totsuka mocks confusion, tapping a finger against his chin, tilting his head to one side as he ponders. It's annoying, Fushimi thinks, but as he hears the raucous chortles emanating from behind him growing ever louder, he realises, perhaps, it is not the most annoying behaviour he could be enduring, currently. “Because you always look so unhappy, except for when Yata's around.”

He didn't think he looked any different, in all honesty, and perhaps his surprise at the words he receives in response to his query is all too obvious; because suddenly Totsuka is _beaming_ at him, and he want to claw at those knowing eyes. Wants to smash the glass held in his hand and slam the jagged remains into those smiling lips... wants to...

“I'm glad you have someone who means so much to you. You're very lucky, Saruhiko.”

Only, he doesn't want to do any of those things.

“You dont have to waste your breath... you don't really like me. You only like me because Misaki does.” His gaze is unwavering; he watches Totsuka's expression of shock and waits – waits for that telltale shift, that betraying turn of his gaze, however brief, that will signify his lie; signify that his assumption is correct and unquestionable, as it often is...

Only, it does not come. Totsuka smiles, sadly, shakes his head and laughs, going back to cleaning one of Kusanagi's prized diamond glasses before his friend could spot that he had been using it, and simply nods at the fresh drink he has place in front of Fushimi. “You should drink it before the ice melts and it gets watery, though Yata mentioned you're not a fan of fruit, and there's only a few things you'll stomach, so if you don't like it, it's okay...”

Fushimi looks down at the drink, blinks down at the yellow flesh caught over the rim of the glass – bleeding juice down over the coaster beneath... and feels an odd tug somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Glancing back up at Tostuka, much to the other's apparent surprise, he takes a deep breath, and clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth.

“I like pineapple, so maybe you're not totally stupid.”

He doesn't smile, when Tostuka beams at him from across the bar; doesn't laugh, when Totsuka all-but _screams_ for Misaki to come and see how much Saruhiko is 'enjoying' his drink (he wouldn't say it was anything special – if anything, it's a little too sour), and he certainly isn't happy about Misaki giving him a swift whack to the back – pulling him into an overfond headlock and insisting that he knew the 'monkey' would enjoy some fruit if he tried...

He doesn't, but somehow, deep down, perhaps he wishes he could.

But he's never really worked that way, and he doubts he could even if he tried.

He is tired, tired, tired.

_Misaki, let's go home._

But the words dont leave his lips and instead he sits, hunched and unwelcome, waiting and waiting.

_Perhaps he's getting tired of waiting._

*

_**The ocean's surface looms overhead but he cannot reach it.** _

_He does not recall how he came to be in this place; the last he recalls he had been in his room back at Scepter 4 headquarters – the immediate threat of the Green Clan had been dealt with, and a semi-truce with HOMRA – with the Red clan – had been agreed upon..._

_Munakata had been..._

_Strange, this place – the waters are crushing and somehow familiar. The pressure on his body, the ringing in his ears... Dark and lifeless upon this desolate seabed, where there is naught but sand that weighs him down._

_The air is fading in his lungs, water stinging at his eyes._

_**The beeping of a heart monitor, echoing around him, vibrating through the water.** _

**Beeping, beeping, beeping.**

_But it is not his father he sees._

_Bubbles escape his lips, distort his vision, as he calls out to his Captain, and King, blurry in the sinking depths before him._

_Water fills his lungs, feet weighed down by the ocean floor so that he cannot move._

_Munakata's gaze upon his._

_**A hopeless smile.** _

_He opens his mouth to speak-_

_Something in the sky above the water breaks – a resounding crack echoes down and surrounds them._

_The sword slices through the oceans surface – clean as through a pane of glass._

_**Red fills the ocean and overcomes.** _

Fushimi wakes in his room, tangled in sweat soaked sheets, stomach churning.

*

Grief is hardly something he is by any means used to experiencing.

Even his own father's death had been a welcome affair.

Totsuka's death, however... is an unexpected blow to the wall he has spent all these years surrounding himself with... a slap across the face. A tear in his armour.

He hadn't anticipated... Totsuka, of all people...

For Totsuka to be gone...

_Empty seats._

Bar HOMRA is naught but dim lights and empty seats, when Fushimi finds himself passing it by, later in the evening. It is by no means an accident, though he will convince himself that it is, later on – later when he is alone with naught but the sound of his own uneven breaths and tormenting thoughts that never leave him be. Convince himself that it was not lucidity that brought him here, but only chance. Only some misguided error of his disjointed mind... yet, even he sees the flaws in his excuses.

His fingertips graze the lamppost on the pavement outside the bar, and he flinches at the icey cold feel of metal against his skin.

“ _Hey, are you going somewhere, Saruhiko?”_

Totsuka was...

“ _If you're walking home, do you mind if I walk most of the way with you? The shop by the apartment you and Yata-chan share is the only one that sells my favourite coffee brand.”_

_There is a smile that is offered to any and everyone, and he is no exception._

Somehow it had felt special.

“ _'tsk. Do what you want.”_

The metal is harsh and cold.

“ _Saruhiko, you're actually really nice, don't you think?”_

Unpleasant.

“ _I'm glad you're doing okay these days, Saruhiko...”_

Stupid...

“ _I'm really happy for you.”_

It stings like a burn, as his bare first finds itself forced, abruptly, into half-frozen metal, sliding across it with the force of his uncontrolled and unexpected punch; an action of pure instinct. Pure rage and hate and _grief he does not wish or want to feel_ and his flesh is raw and burning with the ache of it, this solid weight he has dented in one fell move...

Red flames dance about his clenched fist.

Betrayed by muddled thoughts.

Betrayed by sentiment.

By himself...

“ _I never blamed you, for what you did... Maybe I wish you'd done it differently, but...”_

The metal groans under the heat of his burning, blazing fist and _oh_ how he hates it; hates that warmth that envelopes his whole body as those fires swirl about him and seep into his very core.

Electricity crackles within the flames; blue like lighting.

“ _But you weren't happy. Not at all...”_

The crackle becomes louder; crashes like thunder, deafening.

He feels it in his very bones.

“ _Even if the others couldn't see... even if Yata-chan couldn't see it, you...”_

Something feels heavy in the pit of Fushimi's stomach; a lump in the back of his throat that he grits his teeth against as if fighting off bile.

That person...

Totsuka was...

“ _I hope you're happy, now.”_

Gone.

“Fushimi?”

Despite his sudden appearance, and despite the unusual company,Kusanagi Izumo is oddly... placid; his gaze flickers from Fushimi's pallid features, to his shaking, trembling limbs, to his fist embedded in the now dented lamppost, and back again, before his shoulders roll in an easy motion. Bothersome.

Unwelcome.

_Idiot._

Fushimi wishes he had never come here.

Kusanagi's gaze shifts – he sighs, heavy and tired, and it is clear that no fight should be expected. Not here. Not now. Not after what had happened so recently...

_How funny it is, to see others as broken as he._

“Come in for a drink, Fushimi, you look like you need it. And...” There's something broken in Kusanagi's expression; something withered and damaged – something that Fushimi knows will fester and grow, until it becomes a leech on his very existence. Sucking the blood clean out of his veins, arteries, and heart, until there is nothing left except for the aching numbness.

He knows.

“And even if it's you, I'd really appreciate the company right now.”

Fushimi's gaze escapes from Kusanagi's own, and focusses grudgingly on his reddening fist – still tarnished by flame and lighting – jammed violently into ice cold metal. Focuses on the lack of feeling in flesh and bone...

_Of course he knows._

The bar looks exactly like he remembers it; the same rustic feel, same plush booth chairs... the same décor, same vintage bottles behind the bar – _1945 Bas Armagnac on the third shelf from the left, a bottle he had thought of smashing a thousand and one times, for all the bartender boasted about it –_ and the realistion is oddly unstettling.

Had anything changed?

“Don't pull that face, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

_But..._

Perhaps it is the starkness of Kusanagi's words, considering the current situation, that causes the awkward silence that follows: or perhaps it is simply that they cannot speak with one another. Have nothing to say... empty pleasantires and feigned kindnesses were, after all, all the teen had ever known within these walls. With Fushimi's past betrayal of the bartender's beloved HOMRA, should either of them have expected any different? How could they enjoy each others company, even in such dire times, with what was held between them...?

_He had changed._

“You look different.”

“So do you.”

“Well, it has been quite a while... but even so... you look...” _Hadn't he?_ “Healthier.” There is an odd kindness in Kusanagi's words – Fushimi hears it there. A pitying, half-hearted kindness that makes his skin crawl and his limbs twitch with a desire to lash out against such treatment. What a bother... what a _joke._ “Well, that's not saying much... you always looked like you were knockin' on death's door, when you were...”

“'tsk.”

He doesn't want to hear it.

“Hey now, all I'm saying is you're looking... less deathly. To be honest you still look like you could use a good meal... or twenty.” The words are joking, but there is a seriousness about them that he appreciates less than the previous pity.

“You hardly look good yourself.” Maybe he means it as an insult... maybe he meant it as a warning...

_Don't become like me._

“Totsuka's death... hit hard... right?” What does one say, when a person they once knew, had died? Did they offer condolences? Pity? Did they reminisce upon shared experiences with those who knew them, too? What could one say to a group of people whom they had abandoned, under no friendly circumstances, in favour of another?

He's never been good with people.

He never cared about them enough to try.

_Don't break beyond repair._

“You could say that.” Kusanagi is pale; his eyes, free from his usually ever-present sunglasses, hold an age beyond their years. “Rikio has been eating twice as much as usual... Bando and Shohei only leave their apartment on official HOMRA business,” He places a drink down upon the bar, before Fushimi, and offers him forced cheer, as ghostly-white fingers wrap around the glass. “Chitose's bad habit of sleeping around's gotten worse...” Fushimi 'tsks' down at his glass, and raises it to his lips; he isnt sure what it contains, but it reeks through his nostrils, burning like fire. It slips unpleasantly down his throat, leaving a raw scalding sensation in its wake. “Heck, Yata's barely even stopped to sleep since it happened.”

The glass cracks in his hand, slicing through his fingertips in an instant.

_Don't you dare..._

Kusanagi flinches.

The base of the glass, broken and bloodied, clatters onto the bar's surface, leaving scratches and stains in its wake.

_Don't you..._

“Ah, my bar...” He wipes it up swiftly, doing away with the broken glass in an instant... but he leaves Fushimi's hand unattended; bloodied, cut. Pouring... “So, that's... Still... a sore-spot, Fushimi?”

_Mention his name._

“What do _you_ think?” He spits the words out like a poison, even as blood pours from his fingertips; torn and battered like his very soul. Kusanagi busies himself with making another drink – one each for them, this time. This odd companionship.

This distorted alliance.

Kusanagi laughs – a breathy sound. Weak, but perhaps that is understandable, given the circumstances.

“Totsuka... made this for you one time, didn't he? That time he tried to make those kids cocktails... those stupid hobbies of his never seemed to run out, did they?” When his eyes land upon it, clasped in his bloodied fingertips, he can see that the drink is not the same at all; a hurried pantomime of the original, only this time with added alcohol. There is too much ice, too little fruit, and the pineapple has obviously been sat, unused, or unwanted, for a few days too long.

_It is too bitter, but perhaps that is apt._

The sour tang, worsened by the copious quantities of gin hurriedly dashed upon it, sits unpleasantly on Fushimi's tongue, long after he downs his first mouthful, and it is out of some semblance of politeness that he avoids clicking his tongue as a show of his disapproval. “He was into... video recording recently, right?” What was he supposed to talk about?

What was he supposed to say?

_What was he supposed to feel?_

“Yeah, he was... we watched a few of them, recently...”

His gaze is focussed elsewhere; photographs on the corkboard across the bar.

_Smiling faces._

“I was actually surprised...”

_An arm around his shoulders, embracing, welcoming..._

“I didn't expect to see it, but...”

_A place he might have once belonged._

“You were in one of them.”

He feels the blood in his veins freeze in an instant.

“I didn't realise he'd seen you so recently.”

He clicks his tongue, unable to meet the questioning eye.

_Bothersome._

Kusanagi downs his own drink in one gulp, ignoring the awkward silence in the air between them.

_He doesn't know why he came._

_He doesn't belong here._

“Yata misses you, you know.”

The blood pouring from his fingertips weeps into his suddenly clenched fist and _oh_ he feels a forgotten piece of glass – a painful shard of reality – press ever deeper into his flesh as it pushes into his palm. _Nothing, nothing, this pain is nothing – irrelevant. Something to be forgotten..._ It is grounding, and enough; he will not lose himself in memories best left forgotten.

_An easy smile, an arm around his shoulders._

“Even if he doesn't say it... or wont ever say it.”

_Auburn hair brushing against his chin, and that smaller body jostles his playfully._

_The scent of soda, spilt clumsily on his shirt some hours before..._

_Home._

_It has always felt like home._

“If he's never going to say it, it might as well not be true.”

_Like those words he never managed to say..._

_Clinical walls of white and the recurrent beeping, incessant, of a heart monitor._

_That rasping chuckle._

_Regret._

In morbid silence, and the dimming light of the dying day, they down their drinks to the very last drop.

*

Grief is a foolish thing.

His nails graze a jagged line down the contours of Misaki's spine – convulsing and contorting in helpless desperation and want and _need –_ writhing against Fushimi's own body. Caught somewhere between aggression and desire, the wanton moan that slips free from Misaki's lips, Fushimi is sure, is in no way a complaint against his actions...

Though it's not as if he would stop, even if Misaki begs... even if he cries and weeps, and begs and pleads, and – oh, his nail grazes bone and he _feels as it does –_ feels the rough tug at his fingertip, and lets the sensation fill him. Let's this realisation fill him; that Misaki is fragile and broken, broken by his own hands, and even if for now it is only this body, this outer shell...

Well, if those trembling breaths and ragged moans the motion of Fushimi's hips are creating are anything to go by, it won't be long until he breaks the rest, too...

“Sa-Saru... h-hiko...” It catches him off guard, and his motions falter.

_Saruhiko._

He grabs both of Misaki's wrists, and pins them to the wall above his head roughly; so hard that he _feels_ the brickwork graze the flesh and _hears the tearing of flesh and fabric_ as Misaki slips and struggles to stay upright.

A leg twists around Fushimi's hip, pulling him closer and _encouraging_ his actions.

_Ah, there it is._

He bites down hard into the waiting clavicle shuddering so temptingly before his grating teeth, and slams his hips forward harshly; maybe he can convince himself that the moan that follows is more one of pain than of pleasure.

Maybe he can convince himself that it came from Misaki, and not himself.

“Misaki...” his words are muffled by broken flesh and oozing blood.

The smaller males breaths judder, ragged, from his kiss-swollen-lips.

He bucks his hips forward – to fast, too deep, too harsh.

Misaki's fingernails cut into his shoulders, where they grip relentlessly now – using the bony contours of Fushimi's body to lever himself up and down to meet each thrust; eyes shut tight, cheeks red from effort or embarrassment or both, Fushimi does not know.

Doesn't even pretend to know.

“ _We'll fly away together one day...”_

Pressing his fingers roughly into Misaki's gasping mouth, Fushimi doesn't even flinch as the redhead bites hard down onto the digits, groaning around them needily; at the same time rutting his body against the younger male's as if to beg him to move faster.

Beg for more.

“ _Just you and me!”_

Pulling his fingers free, one hand still planted firmly over Misaki's hip, Fushimi wraps his newly freed hand around Misaki, carelessly and forcefully pumping his fist up and down; fingers slick with sweat and saliva, and whatever else the redhead has to offer him.

This sort of thing...

“S-Saru...”

This aggressive, broken excuse for love...

“Pl-please...”

For affection...

The grip on Misaki's hip becomes crushing – bruising and breaking – and oh how Fushimi adores the twisted cry that escapes those tainted lips, and his hips buck upwards with painful force and his fingers squeeze all-too-suddenly...

Misaki slumps back against the wall, still held up by Fushimi's rolling hips and violent hands...

It doesn't take the younger male much longer – all too soon, Misaki is a rumpled mess sat upon the floor; jumper torn at one shoulder, the garment hanging off precariously. Shorts unzipped, and unbuttoned, hat missing – laying, sodden, in a nearby puddle, as the falling rain soaks his body through... blood still clumping around his lips from Fushimi's efforts, stark scratch marks standing out against his soaked skin...

Fushimi is half-way to being presentable once again; though several of his shirt buttons are missing, his waistcoat has seen better days – his coat drenched through from the rain, bloodstained on the lapel from the steady stream still occasionally trickling from his bruised and battered nose. His glasses appear distorted – warped on one side, where the beginnings of a stark bruise can be seen forming under the rim; evidence of the force of Misaki's punches in their earlier scuffle.

“H-hey...”

He doesn't want to look down at that pathetic mess, as he fastens his misplaced sword to his belt; almost ready, once again, to start his patrol anew...

“Saru...”

He doesn't even want to think what came over him...

Seeing Misaki so broken and hopeless...

“Why aren't you answering me...?”

So lost...

“What was that supposed to... why did you...?”

_It really pissed him off._

“Call it pity, or whatever you want, I don't really care.” Whether or not he means for the words to seem so harsh, they escape from his mouth and hang in the heavy air like a weight between them; like a wall they had never, and will never, be able to climb. “You just looked so pathetic, Misaki, I didn't see a problem with seeing how far I could take it...”

His eyes slide, finally, to rest on Misaki's slumped form; and even he knows that, were he to look into a mirror at his reflection, he would see another's face before he even began to recognise his own.

“Apparently pretty far – right, _Misaki?_ ”

“Y-You! Mr Mikoto, and Mr Tatara are... are... and you're still talking like that?!”

Fushimi doesn't even flinch, when Misaki – suddenly on his feet – wraps a hand into his already damaged clothing, and tugs demandingly, eyes ablaze – fire in his gaze, and in the hands that so angrily tug at his being...

“How else...” His own hands remain at his sides.

He's forced enough, today.

“...Am I supposed to talk to you now?”

_And there it is._

Misaki's gaze softens, his teeth grit down and confliction clouds his features – confused and unsure – helpless in the face of so many emotions on top of the engulfing grief he surely still feels...

Fushimi wonders how that must feel... to someone unused to such confliction, someone so unlike himself... _how does breaking, at long last, feel?_

“Why can't you just...”

Misaki's words are never completed – as his head comes to hang solemnly against Fushimi's chest, and his whole body seems to give up, and seek his support.

It is a heavy weight.

He doesn't know what he is supposed to do.

_This unending torture..._

Shaking hands find Misaki's back – grip there, too hard and too harsh and too angular to be comforting... fist in damaged and drenched fabric with a force that can only do more harm than good...

But even so those shoulders – so tight and drawn in – seem to relax at his touch, and those watering eyes find his own as the smaller body presses upwards to roughly claim pale lips.

Desperation and grief and want and need, all rolled into one... a body practically begging Fushimi to envelope it completely – to surround it and claim it wholly as his, if only for another moment, so that nothing might exist beyond them in this world.

In this clouded sky they have chosen to blindly navigate.

_This will never be enough._

 


End file.
